The Steps That Lead To You
by DreamofInception
Summary: A series of Bellamy and Clarke one shots. Request any ideas in the comments section.
1. 1

_So while I am in the midst of a slight hiatus with my detective Bellamy and Clarke story, I decided to create a Bellarke one shot series to exercise my writing and creativity. And also, of course, for the entertainment of you lovely people. This one shot follows the events of 2x09, and predictions of what will be happening with their characters in season 2B._

_If you have any requests for a one shot, please, don't be afraid to comment the suggestion and I'll be happy to do it!_

_Happy bellarking!_

* * *

**Hours to Days**

He has to get back to Clarke.

He has to get back to the smell of fire that waves off her skin, to the flames of determination that increases in her eyes, to the rough lips that he's longed to taste and feel.

He has to get back to her.

Bellamy grunts as he struggles against the wired walls around him. When he heard Clarke speak of the horrors of Mount Weather, he could almost envision her fear. He could almost sense the apprehension she felt when she fought her way out. He never imagined that he would feel it himself. Feel the emotions of hopelessness, of being trapped in the cages that she described to him.

He has to get back to her.

"Bellamy," Monty whispers from the cage across from him. He's weak and pale from surgeries, and Bellamy tries not to notice the declining life in his eyes. "There's no use. I've already tried everything."

Bellamy shakes his head. Doesn't he understand? _He has to get back to her._

"I'm getting us out of here, Monty," Bellamy urges. Though he doesn't know if his voice matches the reassurance in his heart. "We have an army. We have an army and we're going to get out of here. We're going to go home."

Monty scoffs. "Home. Earth isn't home. It's Hell."

No. No, no, no. He's wrong. Earth is their home now. Bellamy has a responsibility to return to, people to protect. He has people to love. That's what home is. No matter the circumstance.

He ignores the continuation of Monty's despair as he claws his nails against the cage. There has to be a way out of here. He can't give up, he won't. He didn't give up when Lincoln released the reaper that was still inside him, his teeth scratching along Bellamy's skin.

He didn't give up when he used a rock to knock Lincoln unconscious, when he tied him to a tree, knowing they're too far from camp and too close to Mount Weather to do anything better than leave him until he gets back.

He didn't give up when he was taken in to Mount Weather, when he was accused and tortured for being affiliated with the Ark and Grounders. For being brought in to help break the system down.

He didn't give up when Clarke's voice was nagging in his head, telling him, _yelling_ at him, saying that his life is worth the risk. That is death is worth their attempts.

She didn't mean it. He knows that. She knows that. He just wants to see her again to prove it to her. To prove that love and hope isn't lethal. That it can still exist.

Monty's wrong. Home isn't a place. It's a person.

It's her.

It's Clarke. His princess.

He has to get back to her.

* * *

_The end! Really short I know, but I just wanted to write something based on the feels from last weeks episode! What did you guys think of that episode, crazy right?_

_Yet again, thanks for the awesome feedback as always, and don't forget to suggest a one shot if you want to! Love you guys, xoxo_


	2. 2

_I am so sorry for the delay! My laptop has been in repairs after an incident! Just a reminder that this oneshot series will not always be canon, or in chronological order. Enjoy! :) _

* * *

**Bellamy and Clarke**

He realizes that the love he has for her is the dangerous kind.

The kind that allows him to be violent when her life is dangling in front of him, the kind that forces him to be selfish when she's captured by Grounders with other survivors, the kind that extends his brutality if anyone touches her.

And, irresponsibly yet completely understandable, the kind that motivates him to keep her safe amongst anyone else.

Based on the casualties he _could_ have saved, Bellamy identifies this as the reason why the feelings he has for Clarke Griffin is utterly and inefficiently dangerous.

God damn it.

"_Jacob_, Bellamy. You should have rescued Jacob, he's the one with the best aim. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Bellamy sighs. It's been several hours since he raided the Grounder prison in the east woods, his hands occupied with spears and his mind racing with desperation. There were four delinquents he brought with him after hearing of the princess being captured, and, undoubtedly, one of them being Jacob. And, undoubtedly, his priority was to save Clarke. Not Jacob.

Sorry Jacob.

"You weren't even paying attention to him," Clarke hisses, the wet cloth beginning to press a little harder against the side of his neck. His eyes don't stray from her fierce glare as he watches her from his position on the mattress. She's standing between his legs, her free hand on his shoulder, and he tries not to be obvious about his gazing.

But her eyes. Damn her eyes make it nearly impossible.

"Are you even fucking listening?"

Bellamy tilts his head further upwards to study her. Her skin is still plastered with dried blood and her hair is still frizzing from the nap she just woke from. The nap where she thrashed in his bed, screaming of murder, and he had to hush her back to a quiet slumber. Only for her to rewake and release her inner rage on him.

As long as she's breathing, he really doesn't fucking care.

"There wasn't anything I could have done," he tells her. It doesn't smooth the creasing in her forehead. "Jacob knew of the possibilities going in. He choice to come. To save _you_. He made his choice the minute he left camp with me."

Clarke scoffs. "You shouldn't have came. It's not worth the risk."

Okay, now he's getting pissed.

He grabs both of her hands that rest on his neck, pulling them back and taking them in his own grasp. He drops the bloodied cloth she's been healing him with on the floor, weaving his fingers through his. Her skin is cold and wet with the red reminder of loss.

Clarke breathes deeply, her eyes afire. He squeezes her hands and pulls her closer towards him. "You can't say that, Clarke," he murmurs. "You need to understand that it is worth the risk. It always fucking will be. Always has been."

And that's why its dangerous. And if his desperate need to protect her at all costs is what condemns him to hell, then he'll willingly go. As long as she's alive, he'll go anywhere, do anything, for her.

Clarke seems to understand that, and she rips her hands from his grasp and uses them to shove against his chest. He shifts on the mattress so he doesn't fall backwards, rising from the bed and standing in front of her. "Shut up, Bellamy," she grumbles, "just shut up, shut up, shut up."

His eyes bore into hers. "No."

He can hear her breathing falter, can sense the frustration radiate off her skin as she springs forward to shove him again. Her voice is weak and low, and he can notice the tears shedding her eyes. "You _idiot_. Don't you get it? Jacob died, he - " she stops short, pausing to wipe her fingers hastily at the wetness under eyes, "_You _could have died. That could have been _you_."

Her gaze is broken and her hands are clenched into fists. It reminds him of a familiar feeling, and he understands, he understands that she would do for him what he would do for her. And they're both too stubborn to allow each other to do it.

Bellamy shakes his head, but she speaks before he gets the chance to. "You can't just keep looking for me every time I'm in danger. I'm always in danger. Both of us are always in danger. But God, Bellamy, if something were to happen to you - I would . . . I would never forgive you. Or me. So that can't happen."

He can hear the meaning behind her words, _I can't loose you_, and _Don't die on me_. They all sound too familiar, too understandable. Her tone is shaking and Bellamy stands where he is, completely silent and unwavering.

Clarke swallows thickly. She isn't done. "So don't try to make me feel okay with you risking your life for me, because if it were the other way around, you wouldn't want me to go and you know it - "

The next moment is a blur of hands tangling in hair and continuous whispers of need. His mouth is desperate on hers, their bodies exploding with heat as she kisses him back with the same passion she uses with every kiss they share. He remembers the line of her lips by now, always soft when they're lazy, always vicious when they need each other. Her lips bring him home.

Her curves are familiar as he traces his fingers down her body, pausing to cups his hands around her thighs and pulling her up. She wraps her legs around her waist and bites down softly on his tongue, rolling her core against his.

Bloody hell. This girl really will be the death of him.

Bellamy carries her to the bed, laying her below him, growing with want. He hovers above her as they strip each other of their clothes, as they struggle to touch every exposed spot of skin. Her hands are smooth as they grab his arms, nails digging along his skin as he pushes into her.

And with his head buried in her neck, and her once broken voice now screaming his name, he accepts the fact that loving her could really cause the end of the world. It could bring upon fire and ice, and death and destruction. Loving her could cause wars and battles, with both sides losing.

It could cause both their existence, but fuck the world for trying.

Because she's alive, and kissing his neck, and he's never felt anything close to this with anybody else. This feeling of need. And hell, it is dangerous, he knows that. But so does she. Love is absolutely dangerous.

And they're both ridiculously and stupidly guilty of it.

* * *

_Haha! Little different I know but I hope you guys enjoyed it!:) Again, don't be shy if you want to request any prompts, I'll be happy to do it! Happy Bellarking my loves!_

_Xoxo_


	3. 3

_Hey guys! Enjoy the new oneshot:) 3_

* * *

**Bellamy and Clarke**

Bellamy Blake just had to get friggin' shot.

And not one of those minor injuries Clarke has always been able to recover on the field, or one of those opening of flesh she knows how to cover. This was a deep, life-threatening, possibly no-more-Bellamy-Blake wound. The one that squeezed Clarke's heart and made her breath falter.

_Fuck_.

"We have to get you out of here," she whispers, her hands steady on the entrance of the bullet hole, just above his left hip. The chaos of war surrounds them as he hisses in pain, his hands gripping her elbows. "Octavia's going to find a distraction. And we'll get you out. Don't worry, we'll get you out."

She thinks she's trying to reassure herself more than him.

The sound of screaming and gunshots continues to escalate, each pop a physical ache to her heart. She shuffles closer into the corner they're shielding behind, brushing her body with Bellamy's. She closes her eyes briefly. They'll win, they'll win and they'll save Bellamy. They'll save everyone. She _has _to.

"Clarke," Bellamy breathes. His skin is pale and cool, and the baseball cap he's been hiding behind is resting on the floor beside them, revealing those familiar brown curls of hair. She reaches out and touches them. So soft, yet painted with blood. "Get out of here. Now."

"No."

Another round involving shouts of pain echoes through the corridor, and his fingers clutch at her arm. "Clarke. Get the fuck out. I mean it. Get Octavia and _leave_." His tone is panicked now. Vulnerable. As if he knows what the outcome of this night is, as if he knows he's going to -

No. No, he's going to survive.

This can't be how it ends, there's no point of surviving if he's not there with her.

"Shut up," she hisses. Blood pours from the ripped part of his shirt she wrapped around his wound, and it makes her sick to think that Bellamy Blake, the man made of iron, bleeds red like everyone else. "Octavia should be back anytime now. So _shut up_."

"Clarke - "

She shakes her head. Her hand comes up to press her fingers against his cheek, blood staining his skin. His eyes soften at the contact, and she doesn't know whether it's because her embrace is comforting or because he's giving in to the feeling of death. Either way, it agonizes her.

"Listen to me," she murmurs. Her hand grips his face a little tighter to keep him awake but his eyes continue to droop. "You are not dyeing here. You hear me? You are not dyeing in this stupid fucking mountain. Octavia's coming back, and we're getting you out. So don't fucking _die _yet."

Her heart is pounding, and his breath is slowing, and _God _she can't lose him, she _can't _lose him now -

So she kisses him.

Clarke leans forward, eyes falling closed, and kisses him. A soft, sweet kiss that sparks a sensation inside her, an overwhelming amount of need that stabilizes her breathing. Her fingers press softer into his skin, and she sighs in relief when she feels him kissing her back. His mouth parting her lips and his breath on her skin. _Whoa_.

She pulls back, hearing the nearing footsteps and shouts of Octavia returning to them. Her eyes slowly lift to meet his. His gaze is burning and alive. "About damn time," he whispers. His words make her nod, make her smile through the tears, and she leans forward to press her lips quickly against his forehead.

If she loses him, it was never worth the risk.

Octavia kneels beside them, tells them the army is overpowering the Mountain Men and Lincoln found an opening for them to escape back to Camp Jaha. She tells them it's a long and dangerous walk, but Clarke doesn't hear that, all she hears is the fact that they have a chance. Bellamy has a chance.

So they leave, half dragging and half carrying him as they stumble across the ground. Clarke tries to drown the sound of continuous screaming and pain as she leaves her people behind, but then she hears chants, and shouts of victory, and she knows they've won.

Of course they did. Bellamy fucking saved them all.

And now they have to save Bellamy.

He's unconscious by the time they reach Camp Jaha, and her mother hurries him into the med bay. The minutes of his surgery turn into hours, and the hours of his coma turn into days, until finally, one day, he wakes up.

And Clarke is there. Holding his hand and peppering her lips against his face. She's there when he cries for the people they lost (the loss of Monty and Harper still burns), and she's there when he smiles when he reunite with the people they saved.

And God. She can't help but feel that he saved her. So many damn times.

So months later, when they're huddled in his tent in the night, his arms wrapped around her waist, she finally says the words she's been terrified of speaking of since Finn. The words she's been taught to hate and never feel.

"I love you."

His grin is soft and welcoming, because he's always known. "About time," he whispers.

* * *

_Haha! Hopefully this is what happens during the season finale?! Or at least SOME kind of Bellarke moment, I mean come on Jason! We need Bellarke!_

_Again, requests are always welcome. Happy bellarking, xoxoxoxo. _


	4. Snippet

_Hey guys! So this is an idea for a Bellamy and Clarke story that involves Bellamy being apart of a rebellion in AU and Clarke afterwards joining. This is just a short introduction to the story, and if I get enough positive feedback, I will continue on the story! Let me know and I hope you enjoy it! :) xoxo_

**_UPDATE:_**_ hey guys! Loved the feedback, just to let you know I'm almost done the first part of this extended one shot, although fan fiction is down and won't let me save my work. Will have it up as soon as I can!_

* * *

**Nowhere Found**

They practised for hours.

Hours upon hours of boxing stances, of upper cuts and right crosses, of jabs and hooks. Her father kept insisting she'd become stronger if she continued to push herself, but she felt weak and tired. She felt like having her mother's carrot soup and watching the sunset like they used to. But her father was persistent.

It was warmer in the living room then she expected, even with the windows open, and her shirt was beginning to stain with the inner release of her body, her arms trembling as she struggled to maintain them in a defensive position. Clarke clenched her hands, waiting, always waiting, for what her father was about to instruct her to do.

"Make sure you don't tuck your thumb in your fingers," her father told her. He reached forward, his hands overlapping hers as he guided her fists in the correct position. "There. Like that. Now swing."

She did.

Her father shook her head. "Again."

Clarke sighed. She dropped her hands, ignoring the way her father's lips curved, a pure indication that he was about to tell her to _be strong_, to _never give up_. She spoke before he got the chance to lecture her. "Why do I need to learn this anyway, Dad?"

Her father straightened his posture. He's been trying to avoid this conversation since he's been teaching her defence moves for the past few months. She didn't understand. There are Guards here, officers, people who can protect them from the horrors of what the war created that live outside the gates.

They're safe inside these walls, inside The Ark, that's what he always told her. That's what she was raised to believe.

"Come here." Her father crouched down, his hands extending towards her. Clarke took them and allowed him to pull her forward. He rested his grip on her shoulders. "When you get older, you are going to learn that some things aren't how they should be, that things should be better."

Clarke worried her eyebrows. "Why?"

Her father squeezed her shoulders. "Don't you worry yourself on that just yet, okay?" When she nodded, he managed a small smile. The feature looked strained on his face. "Remember this for me. Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in."

His eyes are big and red, and Clarke has never seen her father without his familiar look of mischievousness. She rested her hands on his and intertwined their fingers. Her voice was unwavering.

"I won't."

Her father grinned. "That's my girl," he murmured. He leaned forward to press his lips softly against her cheek before standing up, resuming to their previous positions. He nodded at her hands, clenching in fists. "Now twenty more minutes, your mom will have dinner ready soon."

Clarke rose her chin, curved her muscles, and swung and swung until her body ached and her mouth grew dry. She was panting by the end of the few final minutes, but her father was happy, and it made her smile, made it worth it.

* * *

**\- _SEVEN YEARS LATER -_**

Sometimes she wonders if what's outside the gates is better than what's inside.

It's something that all citizens of the Ark have wondered, have _dreamed_, have painted and drew and sold for additional rations. There are stories, campfire discussions that tell the tales of the bandits who scavenge the woods and murder those who are not protected by the security of a refugee base.

But neither of them has ever stepped a foot outside of the camp.

Clarke presses her face against the glass of the window, her eyes peering at the various colours that extend past the walls. The trees are beginning to brighten in the approaching autumn, a season where the Ark is busy with trades and rations in preparation for winter. A winter that comes every year, yet manages to kill the same amount of people.

It's a system, trading food for supplies, trading supplies for food. That's how the citizens of the Ark live. That's how the Exodus War left them, with the remaining survivors of the losing side being held in refugee bases located across the country. This is all they know. All Clarke remembers. Just living in a box and performing in monthly trades in order to receive enough food to see the next one.

Her father used to tell her that the way they lived was punishment for being on the wrong side of the war. He said, and evidently so, that the base guards only protected the more privileged side of camp and harmed the less privileged side.

She's heard of the incidents of course, of the one incident where Roma Rae was raped and then executed for falsely accusing a Guard. Only there were seven witnesses supporting her case, claiming she was telling the truth.

Chancellor Jaha disagreed.

"Clarke?"

Clarke blinks, her eyes tearing from the landscape in front of her to look at her mother, standing beside the kitchen table. Abby places her clasped hands in front of her, wringing her fingers. "The Trade is starting soon, darling," she informs her.

Clarke nods. "Do you have everything?"

Abby manages a sad smile, her eyes shifting to the surface of the table beside her. Medicine and health supplies they are able to create for extra rations lies in a pile on the wood. It looks smaller than last time, and Clarke can notice the bags under her eyes, indicating the hours she spent making them. Clarke knows, she has them, too.

"It's not much. Should be enough to receive an amount of rations to last us until next month," Abby mumbles, her tone yearning.

Clarke bites on her bottom lip. They haven't been able to make as much since her father died, each month being especially cruel with Abby's increasing shifts at the medical bay and Clarke's increasing amount of work at school. They struggle, but they get by. They have to.

Clarke takes the few steps towards her mother in two strides. She places her hand on her shoulder, her fingers wrapping gratefully around the material of her shirt. "It'll be enough, Mom," she reassures.

Abby smiles. It'll be enough.

There's a breaking of silence as The Trade horn sounds, informing the Ark citizens to begin meeting in the camp square and stand at their scheduled booths. They have the same booth every year, in the area with the least protection and the most theft. Not that the Guard does much protecting anyways.

Abby exhales deeply. "Ready?"

Clarke reaches forward, gathering the pile of medicine in a basket and covering it with a cloth. Her eyes shift to meet her mother's, brown and yielding. She takes her hand in hers, squeezing her palm.

"Ready."

* * *

Clarke's feet begin to ache by the late afternoon.

The square is crowded as expected for the month of October, members of the camp surrounding the booths that offer their favourite or needed items, items that include supplies for baking, or games for the backyard, or health care packages. There's a murmur of hurried voices as people attempt to bargain for special deals, as they beg to pay with one ration pack instead of two.

It's no use. The seller needs as much to survive as the buyer does.

Guards line the perimeter of the square, eyes shifting between passing citizens, hands wrapping instinctively around their weapons. Their bodies are pressed together as if to create a cage around them. No way in, no way out. Clarke smirks. A cage, that's what the Ark is.

Clarke glances at the remaining pile of medicine that rests on the booth, bottles and caps with names that their customers can barely pronounce. They've been able to sell a steady amount for six packs of rations, enough to last them almost two weeks. With the half mark of the Trade approaching, it's also enough to worry her into thinking they'll have to skip meals. Again.

Fortunately for them, the prince of the camp, Wells Jaha, spends every Trade at their booth, giving double the rations that they expect him to. This Trade, he gave them triple, given him and Clarke's previous relationship and him wanting to resume it.

It's understandable that she doesn't since his father got her father killed. It's a typical issue for him and his prior girlfriends.

"Clarke."

Her mother's elbow connects with Clarke's waist sharply. Clarke sighs, turning her body to her mother questioningly. Abby meets her gaze momentarily before she can speak, jerking her head towards the man who walks toward them, chin high and three guards accompanying.

The crowd parts a path for them, most of them glaring in surprise. The higher end of the population rarely bother to waste their time buying trades from this part of camp. More commonly, the more privileged citizens (those who aren't raped and starving and suffering) are those who's ancestor's were on the winning side of the Exodus War. The heroes.

Like her father said, life in the Ark is a punishment.

"Ms. Griffin," Chancellor Jaha greets as he approaches them, ordering the guards to the side with a swift of his hand. He turns back to them and nods in acknowledgement, eyes settling on Clarke. "Clarke, how is school?"

She swallows. _Fuck you_. "It's fine, sir," she tells him. She even manages a damn smile.

Jaha hums in satisfaction with her response. It makes her want to shove a ration down his throat. "That's good to hear. Do you mind if I speak to your mother for a few minutes?"

Clarke purses her lip, not liking the feeling of anxiety in her stomach. She blinks, glancing sideways at her mother, who nods in encouragement. Abby's frame is rigid as she taps a reassuring hand on her daughter's shoulder, her eyes never leaving Jaha.

"Of course, sir," Clarke agrees. He'd also have her permission to hang himself in the mean time.

Jaha smiles, graciously almost, at her before turning his attention to her mother. Abby acts instantly, stepping away from the booth, the place where she stood beside Clarke already cold and desperate to be returned to.

She grins tightly at her behind her shoulder. "Keep the booth under control."

Clarke nods. She exhales deeply, watching as her mother follows in step with Jaha, her face downcast in an attempt to shield her expression from her. The pair of them walk with their back towards her, the guards shortly behind. The crowd parts again at their exit.

She stares angrily at the outline of their frame. Jaha has never expressed any interest in how Clarke and her mother have lived their life, other than the occasional execution of a family member. She feels her body tense at the thought. If he even fucking _touches _-

"Miss. Griffin?"

Clarke flinches at the sound of her name. Her vision tears from the disappearing figures, tilting her face to the source of the deep voice that called her. Her gaze rests on a man in front of her, eyebrows quirked and hands shoved in his front pockets. The curls of his hair fall against his forehead, just above his dark eyes.

She blinks. "Sorry."

He offers a small grin, and she _knows _him, of course she knows him. Bellamy Blake. He's been coming to the booth every Trade for the past few months, trading the limited rations he has for medicine she knows he barely recognizes. He's almost ashamed when he asks for it, as if he's afraid of revealing the reason why he needs the medication.

Even though, by now, everyone in the East end knows.

It's hard not to hear the screams eliciting from Aurora Blake in the residence on the corner of Clarke's street. Clarke has even tended to her before after his younger sister, who's in her grade, Octavia, begged her for weeks to help their dying mother. Doctors and nurses are accustomed at a high cost, even those who work in the East end.

It's against the law, could very much get her killed, but she couldn't do nothing. Her father wouldn't do nothing.

_Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in._

Bellamy glances behind his shoulder, eyebrows knitting together when he turns back to her. "Not usual seeing the chancellor in this part of town," he voices. His tone is deeper than she remembers, stronger. He crosses his arms over his chest. His arms are stronger, too.

Clarke pursues her lips, her eyes hardening. "I'm sure he doesn't like it either."

He hums in agreement, and there's a look in his eyes that suggests he holds the same disgust for Jaha such as hers. His gaze falls from hers, glare narrowing as he analyzes the pile of medicine in front of him. She watches as he mouths the name of the pills on his lips. Of course he knows the words. He's seen enough death and sickness by now.

"How is she?"

His eyes lift to hers, looking away momentarily, and she follows his line of vision to observe Octavia standing at a booth a couple yards away. Clarke sighs, they both have people to worry about protecting.

His voice is low when he talks. "Octavia doesn't seem to realize it's almost time," he tells her. He turns back to her, gaze returning. "I just need something to help minimize the pain."

Clarke nods in understanding. She reaches towards the pile of medicine and grabs a bottle of herbs her mother cooks for the patients who are slowly giving in to their sickness. She extends it towards him, and he takes it from her grasp, his skin brushing hers. He turns the bottle in his hand, eyes searching.

"She shouldn't be able to feel anything by the time . . . "

She doesn't finish her sentence, and he doesn't ask her to. He places the bottle on the table in satisfaction and reaches into the pocket of his pants. After a moment of silent searching, he pulls one ration pack from his jeans and places it in her palm. "It's not much," he tells her, tone cursing the circumstances, "but I hope it's enough."

The figures of Jaha and her mother reappear in her line of vision behind Bellamy's shoulder as they begin to return to the booth. Clarke looks at Bellamy, the bags under his eyes, the dirt and exhaustion on his face. She grins sympathetically, grins and thinks of her father as she leans forward to grab another bottle of herbs from the booth and tosses it towards him.

Bellamy catches it in his hands.

"It's enough."

He shakes his head. "Miss. Griffin - "

Clarke looks at him, and this is what humanity feels like. This is how it feels to be human. She jerks her chin towards the approaching images of Abby and Jaha who are gaining closer to where they're standing. "You better hurry, my mom isn't as a lenient," she warns him. There's a pause, and they're both silent and staring. "And it's Clarke," she decides to add.

There's a glint of gratitude in Bellamy's eyes that he seems incapable to speak on. He swallows thickly, frozen, not moving until he glances at his sister one more time, allows her appearance encourage him.

He looks at her then, his eyes dark and bold in contrast to her blue ones. Brooding and calm. His gaze doesn't leave hers as he takes the second bottle, doesn't leave hers as he begins to back away from the booth. "Clarke," he mumbles, in parting, in appreciation.

She nods at him, gestures for him to go, closes her eyes softly when he's out of sight.

_Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in._

* * *

_Okay so this is a short snippet of an idea I have for a Bellamy and Clarke story! If you want me to continue, please let me know because I am genuinely not sure if I will but I will if you guys want me to :)_

_Let me know in the review section! Have a great day guys! XOXOXO 3_

_Happy Bellarking, _


	5. Part 2 Preview

_Hey guys! I decided to write the next few chapters of my story "Nowhere Found". Here''s a little preview of the next one! Just thought I'd share since I don't know when I will be able to post the full chapter with exams and all! Should be within a week for sure though :) Have a great day and good luck with the 100 finale tomorrow haha!_

* * *

**Nowhere Found Part 2**

i.

Abby Griffin has been dead for five months.

Five months since the execution that left Clarke's mother hanging in a state of lifelessness. Five months of struggling, struggling with being polite with the privileged and the Guards, with creating enough medicine to last her until the next Trade.

Five months since she lost her mother. Five months since she became an orphan.

The cabin feels empty, lonelier. Cold and hopeless without the cheering smile of Abby Griffin, without the comfort and wise words she would tell Clarke in order to get through a day in the Ark.

The Ark. Still despicable. Still corruptive.

But the unprivileged society is beginning to fight back.

_"When you get older, you are going to learn that some things aren't how they should be, that things should be better."_

It's not better. It's different. And the Ark is different. There's been riots, small undiscovered crowds of the unprivileged that storm the streets, that tear down posters of Chancellor Jaha and paint words of rebellion on nearby stores.

Expectantly, with the increasing number of resilience against the Ark, there's also an increasing number of executions.

Fathers, mothers, siblings, and friends. Young and old. Healthy and ill. All of them, it doesn't matter, there's no limit on the amount of lives that the Ark has taken. No amount of hopelessness and grief that Chancellor Jaha has clouded the camp with.

But something is coming. Though Clarke doesn't know whether that something is good or bad.

She supposes it doesn't really matter. Nothing was ever good.

Clarke sighs. She reaches forward to scans her fingers across the piece of paper that lays in front of her. Her mother's note. The words have since been burned into her memory, the last words her mother has ever told her. Her final, last piece of advice.

And Clarke still can't figure it out.

_"Trust the Grounders, follow them home, Clarke."_

Grounders. She has no recollection of ever speaking of the term before. No memory of ever hearing of it. But she knows her mother, what she wanted, what her father would have wanted.

They want her to fight. Clarke just doesn't know if she can anymore.

She doesn't know _how _she can.

The silence of the cabin breaks as the horn bristles through the air, reminding the Ark citizens of the Trade that will shortly begin. Clarke is still at the same booth, with the same people, with the same thieves and Guards surrounding the area. That's how it is.

It's a cool day in February, and Clarke glances over at the kitchen table. The pile of medicine that rests on the surface of the wood seems to get smaller and smaller each month. And so do her meals.

School has since ended, and that allowed Clarke the advantage to start her shifts at the medical bay. She's able to get the supplies she requires to make the medicine for the Trade, able to receive a couple additional packs of rations. It's still not much. But it's enough.

For now, living in the Ark, following the law, that's enough.

Enough for her to keep going. To keep living.

But she doesn't know how much longer she can last. Doesn't really care.

* * *

ii.

The camp square is swarming yet again with customers. There's the familiar sound of begging, of crying and screaming that Clarke has always been uncomfortable with but has grown to accept. The unprivileged are desperate human beings.

Desperate people make desperate attempts. And those desperate attempts usually get them killed.

Clarke breathes deeply, looks down at her table. She's only managed to sell seven bottles of medicine in the last couple of hours. That's equivalent to nine packs of rations, to three weeks of living.

Or survival. Or whatever.

That's what Clarke has come accustomed to, with the death of her mother. That's what she's come to learn. She'll never be able to live, to be happy, to make other people happy. There's no room for that in the Ark. In the Ark, hope makes you weak. And weakness gets you executed.

It also sure feels a hell of a lot like giving up. She never thought she'd come to this point.

Clarke licks her lips. She exhales, breathes, rubbing her fingers against her palms to remove herself from her state of mind. Her eyes flicker, pressuring against the building tears in her eyes, and she catches herself in a glare with the person at the booth across from her.

Bellamy Blake.

God damn Bellamy Blake.

His eyes are strong, persistent, the familiar intensity she's observed since the moment of the attack in the alleyway. His hair is curly and growing long since the last Trade, and that's the only time she see's him, when he's standing by Octavia, doing what he needs to do to survive.

Clarke looks away. She hasn't contacted him since the days following her mother's death. And he tried, so did Octavia, they tried to help her, to give her extra rations and offer their support. They tried to make the pain go away.

But she refused. Because every time she looks at him, she see's the man in the alleyway. And every time she thinks of the alleyway, she thinks of how it got her mother killed.

And it starts over again. The pain that never ends.

She's seen him once since the tragedy that occurred five months ago, when he came into the medical bay. His arm was bleeding, deep, and she had to perform stitches on him that required about an hour of practical procedure.

An hour of silence. Silence and brooding. There were some things he said, although, some things she learned. She learned he is still working at the factory, that his sister has begun a job at the school, teaching Greek history.

She learned that his mother died.

But then again, she didn't exactly learn that. She heard of it, when it happened a couple weeks after her mother, heard the wailing that Octavia Blake echoed throughout the East end from their cabin. She heard, and she didn't do anything. Didn't say anything then.

She offered her condolences to him when he informed her, and he just shrugged, nodded even. His lips were bruised and he looked tired. He looked too good of a person for this world.

"Hey, Clarke."

Clarke turns to the sound of the voice, eyes widening at the person in front of her. "Graham," she says in acknowledgement.

He smirks his yellow grin. His hair is shaggy and red, dirty, and Clarke looks around, eyeing the Guards that pass by. They know of Graham's motives, of the amount of suspensions he received from the Trade. He's stolen, even from the most poor of the families, but it didn't matter.

He was a privileged. And that meant it was okay.

Graham fingers one of the medicine bottles on the table. It makes Clarke's nerves tense. "I just wanted to come by, see how you were doing with your mother and all."

"I'm fine."

"That's good," he slithers. He eyes the table, his gaze shifting between the medicine and Clarke. "That's good."

Clarke nods. Her mother was usually the person who could deal with the conflicts that arose during the Trade. And he knows that. He knows and that's why he was smart to never try and steal from them before. But now it's not them. Now it's just her. It's just Clarke.

Graham turns away from the booth before she even realizes the two medicine bottles missing from the table.

_Fuck._

"Hey," she sneers. She steps away from the booth, her steps trailing behind him as he walks further into the centre of the camp square. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

He glances over his shoulder at her. "Piss off, Griffin."

Clarke reaches forward. She grasps his elbow with her fingers and turns him towards her, her hands tight on his skin. He rolls his eyes, smiles at the Guards that observe them, and it hasn't occurred to her until then that straying people have begun to notice their encounter.

Clarke doesn't care. She doesn't fucking care.

"I can't afford this Graham and you know it." She's pleading now. Desperate people make desperate attempts. "Give it back."

Graham sighs. He gently peels her fingers from his elbow, and places her hand back to her side. He looks at her, and those eyes of trouble are hidden behind his bangs, behind his status. He smiles, softly, sarcastically.

"Why don't you go cry to your fucking mommy?"

There's many options of how she can handle this situation. There's a few stray members of the Ark that has surrounded them now, engaged in the situation and clash of the statuses. She can walk away, easily forget about the medicine bottles and return to her booth without consequences. But she doesn't do that.

Clarke punches him.

Her fists clench, tightly wounded as they strike against the side of his face, against his right cheek. He gasps, his fingers pressing against the redness surfacing his skin as the medicine bottles drop to the ground from their spot in his coat pocket.

Clarke's eyes harden, and she raises her fist again.

"Clarke."

She feels hands on her shoulders, pushing her back, and she knows who it is before her eyes even reach his face.

Bellamy stands between her and Graham, his expression hard. He tightens his hold around the material of her jacket, and he shakes his head, eyes warning in his usual intensity.

"Stop," he demands.

Clarke removes his hands from her shoulders and narrows her eyes. "Get the hell out of my way, Bellamy," she growls.

"No."

His answer sends a shiver of rage down her spine, and she stares at him, the silhouette of the crowd and Graham in the background. His hard expression reflects hers, and she knows he's not giving up. He's not giving up on her.

Her shoulders slump as she sighs. She wants to cry, wants to scream out at the people watching them, yell at them to continue with their day, to not gawk. She's the exhibit of a tragic individual in the Ark, the poor girl who almost got raped, who lost her parents, who punched Graham.

The poor girl who lost her mind.

"Miss. Griffin."

The icy voice of Chancellor Jaha splits through the air. Her fists curl tighter, and she swallows thickly, throat burning in the hatred that surrounds her. His tone is menacing, and she doesn't want to look at him.

But then she watches as Bellamy's eyes shift from hers to glare at a figure behind her shoulder, and she follows his direction of vision, turning to face Jaha and the crowd that parts with him.

Jaha steps forward. His stance of pride is familiar and despicable as a rally of Guards stand nearby in a protective stance around him. "Miss. Griffin," he repeats, this time her name sounds more irritated on his tongue, "I, along with other witnesses, observed you getting in a physical fight with Mr. Graham."

Clarke nods. She won't deny it. "He stole two of my medicine bottles, sir." The title still burns her lips.

"I understand," Jaha answers. Bellamy's breath is hot against the back of her neck where he stands behind her. "Although I am afraid to announce that this act of violence will not be accepted. Starting now, you are suspended from the sequence of today until the next Trade. Please, if you could, pack up your booth and return to your cabin."

Clarke shakes her head in disbelief. "Chancellor - "

"Now."

Clarke blinks. The crowd that has been observing the scene has grown larger, and she see's the recognizable faces of the students she went to school with, the acknowledged expressions of her mother's past co-workers. All thinking the same thing. Always thinking the same thing.

The Griffin girl. The one who's lost her mind.

She hears the coughing of Graham as he stands from the ground, and she doesn't realize until then that her fist starts to cramp. She licks her lips, flexing her palm and turning towards the direction of her booth.

Bellamy is still looking down at her when she catches his gaze again, but this time the wall of armour is gone, and his eyes are softer, sympathetic. And she wonders if he's thinking the same thing, too.

The Griffin girl. The one who's lost her mind.

Clarke shakes her head at him, as if to answer her own question. She's not gone. She's not lost. She pushes past him and ignores the wavering stares as she walks through the crowd.

She bends down to pick up her two recovered medicine bottles, and then leaves the Trade, with a pile of rations much smaller than last time.

* * *

_Well! There's the small snippet! Hope you guys enjoyed it and are looking forward to the next one!_

_Happy Bellarking!_

_xoxoxoxo_


	6. Drink To That Snippet

_Okay guys, this is a small snippet from a new story called Drink To That, and I just wanted to know what you guys thought about it._

* * *

**Drink To That**

i.

Clarke's hands are tense where they grip the steering wheel, the interior of her car drenched in darkness despite the light that shines on the dashboard.

The dashboard is flashing the time, really damn annoying, and she stares at it.

6:59 pm.

_Fuck._

She peels her fingers from the wheel, wrapping them around the hem of her shirt, clenching the material in her fist. She's stubborn, and pathetic, and she doesn't want to go inside. She doesn't want get out of her stupid car, because she's a stupid girl.

7:00 pm.

Fucking _fuck._

Clarke sighs. She really doesn't to go, and she thinks of all the excuses she could make, thinks of faking a sickness or faking an injury or a breakdown or maybe faking her death because that would mean no one could ever bother her again.

No one could ever bother her except for that stupid voice in that head, a voice that sounds exactly like her mother.

_Thanks a lot, mom._

She remembers what her therapist used to teach her, and she breathes in the good, breathes out the bad. She looks like an idiot, and her therapist was an idiot, but she does it anyway, taking deep and longing breaths, procrastinating.

That nagging voice in her head echoes again, and she huffs, opening the front door of her car.

She's going. Jeez.

Clarke walks towards the nearby building, her heels clicking against the cement. She folds her arms across her chest, her fingers fiddling with her sleeve, and she doesn't want to go, she really doesn't, but she is, and that's life.

Man, being an adult _sucks._

There's a man already speaking to a group of people when she enters the room, and she wonders if that's Kane, the guy her mother has told her about, the guy she spoke to on the phone. He turns his head from the circle of chairs that surround him, dazzling smile and all.

"Griffin's daughter, yeah?"

Clarke nods. Yeah.

"I'm the speaker, Marcus Kane," he says, "why don't you take a seat?"

Instead of faking a sickness or her death, she fakes a smile, and steps towards the drowsy people around her. Some of them grin at her in encouragement, others rolling their eyes at her presence, and all of them smell like piss and McDonalds.

She sits beside a man, the only other normal person here, and he glances at her.

"This is a safe circle," Kane continues, and oh God just shut up already, "you will not be judged here."

The man from beside her continues to analyze at her, and she feels pretty fucking judged. He has curls, freckles that spread his tanned face, and she wonders if he thinks he can intimidate her with his glare.

Clarke stares at him, not backing down, and he smirks.

"Miss. Griffin?"

She turns towards Kane, her eyebrows pinching together. "Yes?"

"Could you introduce yourself to the group?"

Clarke sighs. She glances at the freckled, floppy haired man again, irritation rising in her at the amusement in his gaze. He has a handsome face, and it's distracting, and rude to use it for evil. The damn bastard.

She stands from the chair, her hands wiping at the material that covers her waist. The people that surround her lean forward, sarcastically or genuinely, and she releases a long breath.

"My name is Clarke, and I'm an alcoholic."

* * *

_okay so that's it, and I'm honestly just wondering whether you'd guys want me to continue with this story first, or to start the sequel to Nowhere Found first. It's honestly up to you guys, I'm happy with whatever decision, and if you want to state your opinion just comment in the review section below!_

_Thanks a lot guys, have an amazing week and happy bellarking__! xoxo_


	7. Nowhere Found Chapter 11 Snippet

_Hey guys! A__HHHHHH I'M SO SORRY! I know, I know, I'm a horrible person for not updating sooner. But, honestly, so much stuff has happened in the past month I don't even have enough room to explain it all. (There was a new job, another funeral, and a whole bunch of writers block)._

_I just got started on the next chapter of Nowhere Found, and so I wanted to share a small snippet of the chapter to let you guys know that I am back and I haven't forgotten about the story! Here's a small preview!_

_Next chapter should be up in a couple of days, I hope :)_

* * *

**Nowhere Found Chapter 11 Preview**

i.

_Love is weakness._

That's what she tells herself. _Love is weakness._

Love, of all its limited strength and glory, causes only pain. It restores a lost faith inside each exhausted soul, ignites lost memories of a life that once was and a life that could be.

It destroys people. It destroyed _her_.

It crept into her heart and forced her to hope. It caused her grief, and suffering, created the blood on her skin and the nightmares in her mind.

She thinks of love, and she thinks of Bellamy, thinks of the endless trail of corpses behind him.

She thinks of Finn. Remembers the knife in her hands.

Remembers the blood.

Clarke shifts, her body stiff with hardened crimson and aching muscles as she lifts herself from the ground. She looks at the body beneath her, looks at _Bellamy_, his expression so troubled in his slumber.

He's real, he's breathing, and it makes her want to scream, makes her want to rip out her heart and the feelings that contain it.

_Love is weakness._

Clarke breathes deeply. She glances at the sleeping bodies around her, so few alive amongst the countless fatalities of the Ark. There's so many questions, so much to discuss, and she closes her eyes, limping further into the forest.

She hisses at the movement of her wounds, the stretching of her stitches. Her body gains torture with each step, with each breath, her blood pounding feverishly as she stumbles across the ground.

She lowers herself onto the dirt, pulling at the roots of the grass.

"Clarke?"

Clarke clenches her fists, turning towards the voice. She missed that voice.

Octavia stands in front of her, her arms crossing over her chest. "What are you doing?" she questions.

She bites on her lip. She removes her fingers from the grass, rubbing her hands against her bandages. They're soaked with blood and sweat, her stitches thick underneath her wraps. She shouldn't be walking, shouldn't even be moving, and Octavia knows that.

"There's so much noise. I can't think, " Clarke says.

Octavia breathes deeply. "Yeah," she mumbles, kicking at the dirt around her feet. "Sure."

Clarke sighs. She remembers the last time she saw Octavia, nearing her death with a bullet in her leg. She remembers the months leading to the massacre, thinks of her courage and her loyalty. She lent Clarke her home, shared her bed and her food.

"I'm really glad you're not dead," Octavia murmurs.

Clarke nods. "You, too."

Octavia smiles. She walks towards her, sitting beside Clarke on the grass. Her eyes scan the bruises and cuts on her body, and she wonders how many more wounds are hiding beneath her clothes. Wonders how many more people they killed to still be alive.

She sighs, and Clarke hears the words before Octavia even speaks them.

"What happened?"

Clarke swallows thickly. Finn's face flashes before her. Cage's lips press against her neck. A river suffocates her throat.

There's a cough, and a breaking of sound that echoes throughout the forest. It's harsh, and violent, and Clarke doesn't even realize it's the sound of sobbing until Octavia wraps her into an embrace.

Clarke's tears are hot against her cheeks, and she can't even breathe.

_Love weakened her. Love weakened us all._

* * *

_What do you guys think so far? It might seem off, but it's only because I have to get back into the story and characters! Don't worry, this chapter will be worth it! And there'll be a (somewhat) reassuring Bellarke moment in this chapter. Can't wait for you to guys to read it! xoxo, full chapter will be up soon!_


	8. We agreed Just sex

_Hey guys! Decided to take a small break from writing Nowhere Found to write this oneshot I had an idea of! Enjoy. It gets pretty dirty ;)_

* * *

**"We agreed. Just sex."**

Clarke Griffin isn't a jealous person.

She has a good life, with good friends and a good job, has the occasional romance of satisfying her sexual frustration. She spends her days reading in the sunlight with her cat, Elsa, wrapped around her waist and purring into her shirt.

She's happy. So fucking happy that there's no reason to be jealous at all.

_No. Fucking. Reason._

"Clarke?" Octavia leans over the table and touches her arm. "Your hands are turning red."

Clarke blinks, turning her head from the two people at the other side of the bar. She glances at her hands, clenched in fists, her fingers digging into the skin of her palms.

Raven chuckles. "You constipated or something, Griffin?"

Clarke stretches her fingers, laying them on the table. They're still red, and her stomach is still in knots, her body remaining in the emotion of jealousy and annoyance and -

She grabs her bottle of beer and chugs it.

Octavia gasps. "Clarke!"

"Griffin!" Raven nods in amusement.

Clarke wipes the substance from her mouth and swallows thickly. She looks across the bar again, her skin burning when she see's Bellamy, his muscles expanding as leans over the counter, smiling into Roma's hair.

_Fuck._

"You know what," she steps down from her stool, her ears ringing, "I think I'm going to head home."

Octavia shakes her head. "Bellamy's your ride."

"No." She wants to throw up. She _hates _that name. "He's busy trying to get laid."

She grabs her jacket from the table, and, holy shit, her hands are fucking red again. Octavia begs for her to stay, Raven rolling her eyes and calling her a pussy, twirling her hair as she takes another sip of her beer.

"I'm just tired. I'll see you guys later." She takes the beer from Raven and finishes it. "I'm totally fine."

Her friends stare at her in confusion, and Clarke only waves, her heels clicking against the wood as she walks towards the doors. She passes the bar, breathing heavily when she hears Bellamy grunt a compliment, and Roma's laughter in response.

She clenches her hands. So not jealous.

* * *

It begins to rain when she's walking home.

Clarke curses, clenching onto her coat and wrapping the material around her. She shivers at the increasing strength of the wind, her heels and legs burning in exhaustion.

She wonders how good Bellamy must be feeling in Roma's bed, and she shakes her head, because she doesn't _care_.

Clarke steps onto her porch, the rain rough on her arms as she unlocks her front door. She stumbles into her house, the darkness of the room embracing her mood and soothing her.

She shrugs off her coat, her damp clothes lingering on her skin. Her hair is wet, her body surfaced with water, and she shivers, kicking off her heels.

She _hates _wearing heels.

A clap of thunder echoes above her, and then a knock on her front door, as sharp as the lightning. Clarke sighs, rubbing her arms as she steps into the hallway, pulling on the door handle.

Bellamy stands in front of her, his curls falling from the rain.

Clarke chews on her bottom lip, her throat tightening. She wraps a strand of damp hair around her ear, waving her wet shirt against her body. She's tipsy, and hot, the redness returning to her.

She sighs heavily. "Bellamy, I'm not in the mood to - "

"Why'd you leave without me?"

She looks at him, her best friend's brother, _her _best friend. His muscles pulse under his damp clothes, and he crosses over the threshold, entering her house and closing the door behind him.

The darkness feels much more suffocating.

"I was tired," she tells him.

He steps towards her. "Are you tired now?"

"Besides," she touches his chest, preventing him from getting closer. "You were occupied."

He raises his eyebrows. "Occupied? With what? _Roma?"_

Clarke looks away from him.

Bellamy huffs, shaking his head. He looks so young in the dimness of her home, and her fingers soften against the material of his shirt, wrapping around his collar before she rests her arms at her side.

"She's a friend," he reassures her, and she almost laughs, because _they're _friends. "I wasn't going to - "

Clarke exhales. "It doesn't matter. You could have. If you wanted to."

"I didn't want to."

She looks up at him, his eyes burning into hers. She's never been able to adapt to him, to his eyes, his body. Even when they were younger, when he would pick her and Octavia up from high school parties, and he would scan her body before giving them hell for sneaking out.

Clarke touches his belt, and his muscles tense.

"I thought you were tired," he teases.

She presses a kiss against his jaw, guiding his hands to her waist. "Do I _feel_ tired?"

Bellamy grins. He caresses the dampness of her shirt, pushing her against the wall. His hands roam her body, touching her, remembering her, tracing her in ways that have been perfected in his patterns.

He pulls the collar of her shirt down, trailing his lips along her shoulder.

_Suck it, Roma._

"Wait." He removes his mouth from her skin, and she whimpers in disapproval. "Were you _jealous_?"

Clarke blinks. "_What?_"

Bellamy smirks, tapping his finger against her nose. "You were jealous."

She feels the reddening shade return to her cheeks, to her hands and her memory. She thinks of Roma, trapped between him and the wall, her hands in his hair and her moans in his kisses.

She leans her head against the wall, refusing to expose her flushed cheeks.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Of Roma." His teeth graze the straps of her bra, peeling them from her shoulders. "You left because you didn't like seeing me and Roma."

She laughs, a breathy moan. "Get over yourself, Blake."

She feels his smile against her skin, his lips trailing to her neck, her jaw, kissing the side of her chin. He grazes the buttons of her jeans, his fingers sliding under her zipper as he leans his forehead against hers.

"You like me."

He enters a finger inside her, and she gasps.

Clarke grips his shoulders, pulling her against him as he finds his rhythm. He inserts another finger, pumping them inside her, stretching her in pleasure. He continues to kiss her skin, tugging down her shirt to remove her bra and suck on her breasts.

"Obviously." Her breath hitches, and she rolls her hips against his. "We've known each other since we were kids."

Bellamy shakes his head. "You _like _me, like me."

"I _don't._"

There's a moment of displeasure, of disruption, and Clarke huffs in annoyance when he removes his fingers, detaches his lips from her. He pulls away, though she can still feel his growing product of need against her.

He stares at her. "Prove it."

Clarke grunts, grabbing his collar and pressing him against her. _"No_." She peels his belt from his waist, unbuttoning his pants. "We agreed. Just sex."

He groans when she frees his erection. "Yeah. Seven months ago."

She rolls her eyes, caressing him harshly as he buries his face into her neck. He palms her ass, unzipping her jeans and pulling them down, ghosting his fingers along the insides of her thigh.

"Whatever." She closes her eyes as he rolls her thong off. "So I didn't want you having sex with Roma. Sue me."

He smiles against her lips. "Is that a fantasy?"

She laughs, shaking her head. "Assholes," she whispers. Her fingers clench onto the curls of his hair, and she thinks of the redness, thinks of the jealousy. "You didn't like it when I dated Finn," she murmurs. "You were jealous."

Bellamy smirks. "Cute."

Clarke cups his cheeks, guiding his face towards hers. His eyes are laced with lust, and she remembers the first time they gave in to each other, his hands inside her in the washroom of Octavia's 21st birthday party.

She swore to him it would never happen again, but it did, it keeps on happening.

Clarke curls a finger under his chin, curious. "You like me, Blake," she mumbles.

"I don't like you," he tells her.

"Well, I don't like _you_."

He stares at her, his hands on her waist and her legs wrapped with his. There's a desperation in his gaze, a hunger, and the moment overwhelms him as he grabs her face in his hands and kisses her.

He kisses her. They rarely kiss, but he kisses her.

Clarke groans, her lips connecting with his in an eruption of passion and impatience. She pulls him close, whispering his name, her arms encircling his neck and her chest pressing against his.

Bellamy leans forward, his hands gripping her thighs and wrapping them around his waist. He pushes her against the wall, and she knots her feet together on the small of his back, his growing need close to her entrance.

He trails a hand between them and pushes into her.

_Fuck._

Fuck. He fucks her, kisses her, and holy shit she's seeing stars.

"God," she moans.

She feels him smile against her lips, and he whispers in her ear, whispers those dirty thoughts and those dirty actions. She demands for him to go faster, and he does, her hips meeting his in quick and tense thrusts.

She doesn't know how loud she screamed, her ears were fucking ringing.

And after, when he carried her to the bed and continued to pleasure her, he rolled her into his side, kissing the crown of her forehead. They're sweaty, damp with sex and rain, but God she feels perfect.

"Hey, Clarke?"

She looks up at him. "Yeah?"

He kisses her again, his lips lingering on hers in the darkness of her room. It's sweet, loving, and oh God it stirs another pleasure inside her, but she doesn't know from where.

Bellamy leans his forehead against hers. "I love you."

She smiles. Octavia and Raven always suspected, even without the knowledge of knowing they've been sleeping together, and she's always refused, always declined their assumptions.

She kisses his cheek. "I fucking told you!"

(She loves him, too. Of course).

* * *

_Hope you guys enjoyed it! Next chapter of Nowhere Found should be up in next 1-2 weeks :) Much love, xoxo._


	9. Jealous Bellamy

_Based on the prompt - "I want a jealous Bellamy one shot. Preferably one where Clarke and Miller date causing Bellamy to pine for Clarke. Eventual Bellarke of course."_

_You shall ask, and you shall receive! Enjoy! xo._

* * *

Clarke brings a boy to the bar.

And it really _pisses him off_.

Like, teeth-grinding-nails-scratching-on-the-counter pisses him off. A head-in-the-bucket-screaming-internally pisses him off. Those range of expressions he never understood, never even felt, and it fucking _sucks_.

Feelings fucking suck.

"Bellamy!" There's a banging on the bathroom door and Clarke's voice rings throughout the bar. "Open the God damn door!"

Bellamy sighs, bowing his head on the wall. He was doing so well, was almost polite when Clarke introduced Miller to them, her grin wide and kind. He expected this, heard Octavia and Raven talk about a "new man in Clarke's life", and never thought anything of it.

He never thought anything of it because it's _Clarke_, his sister's best friend, and she's not supposed to make him feel like this.

He's known her since they were in high school, and she's supposed to annoy him, drive him crazy, make him go insane. She's supposed to get riled up when he debates her on things he doesn't care about, but knows she does, smirking when she screams at him.

He wants that; those stupid, unnecessary fights. He wants those emotions, the ones that make him feel like he's on fire, not the ones he's having now. Not the feeling he got when she walked into the bar with Miller, when she told them story on how they met, all happy and bright-eyed.

Miller flushed, told her she's adorable, and Bellamy tried really hard not to punch him in the damn face.

"Holy shit, Blake." Clarke's fists pound on the door again. "Stop being a coward and open the door!"

Bellamy rolls his eyes and steps forward, turning the knob.

Clarke bursts through the entrance and closes the door behind them, the fire beginning to grow again.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Her eyes are shinning with blue steel, fierce and bold, the quality he's familiar with. She leans her back against the door and crosses her arms over her breasts, her pale skin brightening the dimness.

Bellamy raises his eyebrows. "You're the one breaking into bathrooms."

"Fuck you, Blake." She points an accusing finger at him. "You're being a dick."

"I'm being a friend," he presses.

"Who's acting like a _dick_."

Bellamy shakes his head. He thinks of Miller, his expression when Bellamy criticized him, telling him he's insane for thinking _Halo_ is better than _COD_. Miller physically deflated, and Clarke looked at him with murder, so Bellamy left for the washroom to wait out her rage.

But she's here, the rage inside her, and, yeah, her fire is intoxicating.

"I'm just trying to help you find the right guy, kiddo," he tells her, riling her. "You tend to have a long list of bad taste."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Nope." He folds his arms over his chest. "The list starts with Finn Collins, and continues with even more dip shits."

Clarke scoffs. "You're an asshole," she growls, leaning forward and narrowing her eyes. "He's _nice_."

"Nice?" he questions in amusement.

"Yeah." She lifts her chin in pride. "And funny."

Bellamy smirks. Because Miller isn't funny, Miller is a guy you say is funny because there's nothing else to say about him. He's blank, colourless, creates an attraction based on the richness of his clothing.

Bellamy shrugs his shoulders. "Hasn't made me laugh yet."

Clarke tightens her lips. "Yeah," she hisses. "Because you're being a _dick_."

"Still can't see the humour in him."

She widens her eyes, exasperated, and huffs in irritation. The fire continues inside her, sparks igniting the room as she pushes at his chest, shoving him against the sink counter.

"I hate you," she says.

Bellamy raises his eyebrows as she presses into him, the compact of the room causing their friction. Her face is close, the features on her expression mean, and he breathes her in.

"Yeah?" he teases.

Clarke stares at him. "Yeah. A lot."

"Mhm."

"I _do_," she insists.

He exhales, shaking his head. This is usually the part where Octavia yells at them and tells them to get over themselves, or suck it up about whatever argument they were having. But she isn't here, and Clarke's too close for him to be making any decisions.

He remembers Miller, remembers those damn feelings, and it pisses him off again.

"Is that why you're spending more time in here than with your date?" he questions.

Clarke gaps. "I'm here because you're being an idiot," she tells him. "Because I hate you."

Irritation builds inside him. "You said that already."

"I mean it."

He stares at her, the ice in her eyes glowing into flames. He's never felt this before, this burning pain he doesn't want to stop, the intensity that he doesn't want to end. He thinks of their night in his bedroom, all sharp nails and hot kisses, the amusement of keeping it a secret from everyone else.

But then they realized that sex _does _cause emotions, and they crashed and burned into ashes.

He forgot about her, or at least _tried_, since she was still over every damn day and he could always feel his pulse thickening. She was supposed to be another one of the girls he fucks and than gets over, not the girl he _can't _seem to fucking get over.

Feelings fucking suck.

Bellamy licks his lips and pushes himself from the counter. "Can I tell you what I think?"

"No," she replies.

He smirks, stepping towards her as she leans against the door. "I think you're in here," he says, "because you know I'm right."

"Bullshit."

Her response is a breath, a sharp inhale as he stands in front of her. He looks down at the places on her skin that she likes, that turns her on, and he grins, because he gets the feeling that she's just feverish as he is.

"He's a nice, not funny guy, and he bores you," he tells her.

Clarke swallows thickly. "He excites me."

"He's slow, fragile. Makes you crazy."

"He's gentle." Her eyes trail the curve of his neck. "And it's beautiful."

Bellamy shakes his head. "It drives you insane."

"You drive me insane."

And he does. Whether it's because he didn't understand her tutoring in high school, or because she hated witnessing his one night stands in college. Or because they deny what they want, try to convenience themselves it's a bad idea, even though it feels like a good idea every damn time.

They drive each other insane, that's the thing. That's the fire.

Bellamy thinks of Miller, the nice-not-funny-guy in the bar, and wonders if he's figured it out yet.

"If your boyfriend is so great," he remarks, "then maybe you should be with him."

Clarke lifts her chin as she straightens herself. "Yeah. I should."

"Okay. Then leave," he suggests.

She narrows her eyes. "No. You leave."

"Then get out of my way."

She looks at him, the heat in her gaze a familiar element. She opens her mouth, closes it, stares at him with wide eyes and a heaving chest. He knows this stance, knows what she's trying to withhold, and he steps closer towards her.

Clarke squirms against the door and opens her eyes, ice and fire.

"Fucking hell, Blake."

And then she grips the collar of his shirt, pulling him to her in a frenzy of desire.

Bellamy exhales, her lips moving harshly onto his as he presses her against the door. He feels the warmth overwhelm his body, feels it in his hands as he places them on her hips, running his fingers along her exposed skin.

She gasps at the contrast, and, _fuck_, he's missed that sound.

He slides his palms towards the span of her back, tightening the distance between them. She breathes, nibbling at his bottom lip as she struggles to reach for the doorknob, turning the lock.

"You planning on staying in here a while?" he teases.

She kisses his smirk. "Shut up."

Her hands return to cup his face, securing his mouth, and he presses her further against the door. He rolls his hips into hers, and Clarke releases a moan, her lips unmoving as he trails his hand towards the hem of her skirt.

Bellamy licks his lips, stretching her panties and entering two fingers inside her.

Clarke pants, gripping his shoulders. "_Bell_," she hisses.

He hushes her, connecting their mouths to keep her from increasing her volume. She's always been loud, and that always made it more exciting, but they're in a public washroom with her date outside and he doesn't feel like being shamed on tonight.

He pushes his fingers deeper inside her, and she writhes against him.

"_Fuck_." He smirks, and she shakes her head. "You're such a prick."

Clarke huffs, tilting her her along the door. He leans into her and trails kisses along her neck, biting and licking her skin. She bites on her bottom lip, craving, and reaches for the buttons of his shirt.

She removes the material from his chest and digs her nails into his core.

Bellamy grunts. "Slow and gentle, huh?" He stretches her wider, further. "You sure you like that?"

Clarke squirms from his contact. "Just take off your fucking pants."

She kisses him, removing his fingers from her and pushing him against the counter. He stumbles, and she peels her skirt off as she steps towards him. Her fingers undo his belt, and she rips it from his pants, pushing them down his thighs.

"No slow and gentle." She frees his member from his boxers. "Don't you dare."

Bellamy exhales sharply. He grasps her hips and pulls her into him, wrapping his hands around her legs. He lifts her into his embrace, and turns them, settling her onto the counter.

She gasps when her skin touches the cold surface, and she reaches for him, takes him in her hands.

Clarke presses her lips to his ear. "I want you to fuck me, Bellamy Blake." His pulse thickens, and he wipes a thumb against her folds. "You know how."

And he does, spent months figuring out her body, what she wants, what she likes. He pulls her to where he stands in front of her, her thighs gliding against the counter, sweat building between them. She steadies herself as she guides him into her.

She gasps when he stretches inside her, whimpering his name.

"_Shit_," he whispers, because it's been so long, _too _long.

Clarke nods, a silent agreement, and adjusts to him. She closes her eyes, dropping her hands onto him and squeezing his ass, pushing him further inside. He smirks, because she's impatient, and that means she's wants him more than she admits. More than Miller.

"No teasing." She moves against him, desperate. "I need - "

Bellamy thrusts into her, hard, rough, and she curses.

This is what she wants, and he knows that, remembers the times when she pushed him against his apartment door, or when he fucked her against his fridge. He remembers her spark, that same fire, all fury and heat.

But then she begins to meet his thrusts with the roll of her hips, and she feels so fucking good, so there's no time to be anywhere but in this moment.

"Shit," he groans.

She presses her lips into his neck, the vibration of her moans rattling his skin. She clutches his hair, pulls on it, scratches him, and everything seems to clench tightly in his body, waiting for the release.

He continues to jerk inside her, those deep, harsh thrusts, and she bites down on her shoulder, muffling her screams.

"Oh, God." And then louder, higher. "_Fuck_."

She falls apart around him, her legs wrapping around his waist. She digs her heels into his back, her body tightening before it loosens, and she whispers his name, curses it, and the thickness of her voice pushes him over the edge.

He breaks with the feel of Clarke Griffin, coming inside her.

"_Clarke_," he grunts.

Bellamy slouches against her. His chest heaves, releasing a long breath as he attempts to recover. The world looks and feels blonde and blue-eyed, and he throbs with the thought of feeling it again.

Clarke sighs, unwrapping her legs and pushing him from her.

She lifts herself from the counter, reaching for the toilet paper to remove the fluids from her body. She curses at the thickness of the substance, looking up at him as she throws it in the waste basket.

"You can't tell anyone about this," she says.

Bellamy raises his eyebrows. He expected this, the whole denial and the vows to end whatever is between them. He watches as she picks up her panties and skirt, dragging them around her hips.

Bellamy pulls up his pants. "My lips are sealed."

"I'm serious." She throws him his shirt. "This was the last time."

"Agreed."

Clarke looks at him, the lust in her eyes replaced with confusion. She curls her hair around her ear and turns to him, crossing her arms across her chest. He glances at her breasts, plump along her forearms.

"I mean it," she tells him.

Bellamy nods. "So do I."

Her eyes narrow, the ice overpowering her fire. She breathes heavily, roaming her hands over her body and adjusting the mishaps that appear. Her hair is still wild, and her eyes look like sex, but he doesn't tell her that.

"Now, if you'll excuse me." She rubs her palms together. "I have to get back to my date."

Bellamy almost laughs. He wonders what excuse she'll tell Miller, wonders what her expression will be when he actually believes her.

He knows guys like Miller. He'll take any chance he gets.

Clarke turns from him, her blonde waves chaotic around her shoulders as she walks towards the door. He knows he shouldn't, but he steps forward anyway, wrapping his hand around her wrist and pulling her towards him.

He catches the surprise in her eyes before he presses his lips to hers.

She gasps, unknowing, and locks her arms around his neck. He kisses her roughly, passionately, his mouth breathing her in before he eventually slows his pace. And then there's nothing but soft kisses, gentle ones.

Bellamy pulls away and presses his lips to her ear. "Have fun with him tonight."

He feels her shutter, and then he leaves the bathroom, not waiting for her response or reaction. He enters the bar and tells Lincoln that he has to get home, ignoring Octavia's pointed stare, trying not to notice Miller's disappointed expression.

It doesn't take as long as he expects, but only a few hours later, she knocks on his front door.

"Hi," she says, standing in front of him.

Bellamy gazes at her. "Hi."

Clarke bites on her bottom lip. He thinks of all the nights she came to his apartment, bold and confident in her approach. She leans against the doorframe, looking at him through hooded eyes.

"We're going to crash and burn, again," she tells him. "You know that, right?"

He steps towards her. "No."

And then he kisses her, all feelings and genuine hope. Her lips outline his, and he smiles when she crosses the threshold, cupping her face securely between his hands.

They're slow and gentle that night, their movements soft despite the fire of their nature. He mesmerizes her body, her sounds, kissing her when she whispers his name in the darkness of his room.

There's something about Clarke Griffin, he's realized that, finally accepts it.

And they do crash and burn, but in the way that makes him love her more fiercely, in the way that makes him never want to let her go. In the way that makes him kiss her when she comes home, comfort her at her father's funeral, hug her when she graduates university.

In the way that makes him finally get down on one knee.

It's a good balance they have, the balance between fire and ice.

* * *

_Okay, so I need your help. My writer's block is completely solid with the new chapter of Nowhere Found. And, honestly, I need a little bit of a reminder of why I should continue it. _

_So. Please. Help me out. My head is stuck :(_


	10. Nowhere Found Chapter 12 Preview

_Hey guys! I finally pushed myself to start writing chapter 6 of Nowhere Found Part 2! Thank you so much to those who have kept encouraging me and inspiring me to write, and I'm so sorry for the continued writer's block._

_Just wanted to thank all of you with a small preview for the next chapter. Enjoy, xo._

* * *

_Love is weakness._

That's what Clarke muttered to him in the night, weary and oblivious in her slumber.

"Bellamy," she whispered, clinging to the mattress. "_Weakness_."

He's never heard her speak those words before, her lips mumbling through her tormented expression. She balled her hands into fists, her eyes dried with tears, cursing love and the heartbreak it carries.

It hurt. Seeing her like that. And so he held her in his arms, led her to the bed, and he would give anything, do anything to look at her and see those eyes from before, the ones filled with passion.

Now, her eyes are plagued with darkness.

A darkness that came from loving him. A darkness that came from the death and the suffering and the loss.

He remembers. He felt that too.

"How is she?"

Bellamy glances above him. His hands are clenched into fists as he sits amongst a rock, facing away from the chaos of the motel. Octavia stands in front of him, her arms crossing her chest.

He thinks about Clarke, about the darkness.

"She's fine," he tells her.

Octavia bites on her bottom lip. "You don't have to lie to me, Bell."

Bellamy sighs, digging his nails into his palms.

"What do you want me to say, O?"

Octavia breathes deeply. His sister knows him, knows Clarke, has spent almost a year fighting alongside them. She's heard their screams before, seen them cry and curse. She knows the routine.

She sits beside him on the rock, the sun beginning to outline the trees above them.

"I keep thinking about it, what she went through," she says. "What she saw. All I know is that, if anyone can get through this, it's Clarke."

Bellamy drops his head. "How?"

"She's tough. Like her parents." She reaches forward and touches his hair. "And she has you."

He closes his eyes. He see's Clarke, the woman he kissed before she lost herself, the taste of her lips on his before she was captured. He see's the exhaustion in her expression whenever she looks at him, the grief and confusion.

"Yeah."

She tucks a curl behind his ear. "She loves you, Bell."

"I think that's the problem," he says.

Octavia tilts her head. "Why?"

Bellamy exhales. He remembers the days spent with her in the Ark, when they barely knew each other, when their only similarity was their hatred towards Jaha. He remembers the fire in her eyes, the heat and iciness in her blue depths.

He misses those colours. He misses _her._

"Because I love her, too." He swallows thickly and when he opens his eyes he only sees black and white. "And sometimes love can make us do horrible things."

_Love is weakness_. He gets it. Love hurts.

Octavia looks at him. Her gaze registers his response, her pupils calculating the sense of his words. She nods curtly and rests her hand on his shoulder, the sun beginning to appear above them.

"We've all done horrible things. That doesn't make us good people, I know that," she claims, leaning into him. "But a life without love?" She shakes her head. "That's the worst punishment I could ever have."

Bellamy swallows thickly, because love is painful, and it is selfish, but it's worth it.

_"The only thing that's fucking worth it is you"._

And Clarke will always be worth it. She'll be worth every death, every tormenting experience he's ever encountered and will have to encounter. She'll never burden him, not with her tears or her nightmares, not with the blood on her hands and the blood on his.

He thought she was dead. He lived days thinking he'd never see her again.

That was when he was weak. Because of the loss and the torture. Loving her is what made him strong.

"I need her, O."

Octavia breathes deeply. Even the air feels thick around them. She presses into him and wraps her arms around him, embracing him in the similar way of their childhood, when he would comfort her when they were younger.

She lines her lips onto his shoulder. "I know."

And she continues to hold him for a while, even when the wolves begin to howl throughout the woods, awakening the reminder of chaos around them.

* * *

_Hope you guys liked it, this chapter is going to display a major turn of events so be prepared! Nowhere Found Part 2 is almost coming to an end! _

_Full chapter should (hopefully) be up within the week. Thanks so much to all who keep reading._

_Happy Bellarking! Xo._


	11. Friends (With Benefits) Chapter Preview

_Okay guys! Sorry to disappoint that this isn't a full chapter, but I decided to post a little preview of the next update just to let you know I'm still writing and haven't forgotten about this story! Again, so sorry for the extended delay. School is just finishing up, which means more homework, which means more stress, which means less time to work on this story. Hopefully the wait wasn't too long (I know that cliffhanger was a bitch, haha)_

_But anyways - enjoy the sneak preview! Much love as always for the comments! You guys have no idea how much it means to me, and how much you enjoying it means to me. Xoxo._

* * *

i.

"Octavia. _Octavia!_"

Clarke reaches for her wrist, stumbling onto the wood as they step off the stairs. She curses, curling her fingers around Octavia's arm and pulling her from the direction of Bellamy's room.

"Calm down!" Clarke hisses, because _fuck_ \- they're screwed, they're totally screwed. "You're acting like a crazy person!"

"You're boning my brother and _I'm_ the crazy one?"

Clarke scoffs, and Octavia shoves her, peeling her hands from her skin. _Fucking ninja_. She runs towards the bedroom door, the bedroom door Clarke was just pressed against only hours earlier, and she twists her hand on the knob, pushing it open.

Clarke curses and runs after her, arriving just in time to see Octavia pull the covers from Bellamy's bed.

He grumbles, his eyes fluttering open as she rips the remaining sheet from his body. Clarke notices the irritation in his glare as Octavia reaches for him, and she shakes her head, watching as she drags him from the mattress by his ear.

Bellamy scowls. "The fuck, O?"

"Clarke?" she barks, clutching his face between her hands. "Are you serious?"

Bellamy's eyes widen. He glances at Clarke.

Clarke raises her hands. "Oops."

"You guys are fucking insane," Octavia mutters. "My best friend and my brother are secret fucking _lovers_."

Bellamy winces. "Not lovers."

"Yeah," Clarke agrees, nodding. "Don't be dramatic, we're just fuck buddies."

Octavia groans, dropping her forehead against her palm, and Bellamy presses his lips together.

"How long has this been going on?" she demands, and she steps away from them, pulling at her hair. "Days? _Months_? Have you done it anywhere near my bed? Because if you have, I'll fucking ring you up by your panties, Griffin."

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. "Yikes."

"Yeah, _yikes_. So spill. What the fuck is going on?"

Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. "I'm not saying anything until you calm your crazy ass down."

"Calm _my _crazy ass down? Are you - "

There's a light knock on the bedroom door, and Octavia huffs as she turns away from them, placing her hands on her hips. It pushes open, and Lincoln enters, his chest exposed with a tin white t-shirt and his eyes wide with concern.

Clarke glances at Octavia, watching the tightening of her jaw.

"Is everything okay? I heard yelling." He looks at Octavia and raises an eyebrow. "O? What are you still doing here? I thought you were just leaving - "

Octavia shakes her head, her eyes wide as she waves her hands. Lincoln narrows his gaze, and then he glances at Bellamy, muttering as he watches the tightening of his mouth, the intensity of his set shoulders.

Bellamy stares at them, his eyes burning in that familiar way Clarke knows too well. And so does Octavia, because she curses as his glare hardens.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Clarke closes her eyes, tilting her head to the ceiling. "Dear God."

He steps towards them. "Octavia," he hisses, and she crowds closer against Lincoln. "What. Is he. Talking about?"

Octavia grimaces. She glances at Clarke, who shakes her head and looks at Bellamy, who literally won't stop fucking sending daggers towards Lincoln, who is just standing there like he just got a kick to his groin and - shit, this isn't going to end well.

She watches as Bellamy clenches his hands into fists, and yeah, this _really_ isn't going to end well.

"Uhm." Octavia looks between them, and Bellamy tilts his head. "After party?"

Bellamy swears, grumbling under his breath. Clarke shakes her head.

"You slept with my little sister?" he accuses, and she steps in front of him, pressing a hand against his chest.

Lincoln raises his hands. "Listen, man - "

"My _sister_," he hisses, and Lincoln looks like he's about to piss his God damn pants with the fear in his eyes. "You've got to be fucking kidding - "

There's a thud against the bedroom door, and Raven enters the room, her hair untamed and falling from her ponytail. Wick follows in behind her, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he ruffles a shirt over his head.

"I don't know who the fuck is yelling this early in the morning but - " she pauses as she observes the room, her eyes glancing from Clarke pushing Bellamy back to the rang of Octavia's wide eyes. She crosses her arms over her chest. "What the hell is going on here?"

Clarke swallows thickly, glancing at them. None of them move, not even making a sound.

Raven sighs deeply and closes the door behind her.

* * *

_Okay guys! That's the first scene - hope you enjoyed it! Again, sorry for the delay. But school is almost done and I'm hoping to have this chapter up by the end of next week. Also, if you guys have any questions about this story and what to look forward to, don't be shy to tweet me your questions! My account is Bellarke95 , and I'll answer them as soon as possible :)_

_Have a great day, xoxo_


	12. Paint You In (Screaming Colours)

_Okay guys. Some of you may know about what I've recently been going through, and why I've decided to pause on Friends (With Benefits) to focus on my upcoming long oneshot. More details to come, but here's the first scene. The full story should be posted during the summer, and will be much longer (and sadder) but just wanted to keep you all in the loop._

_Sorry for disappointing anyone eager to continue with Friends (With Benefits). But writing this story is great therapy for me as I can relate to it very similarly during this time. Hope you enjoy the preview. Follow me Bellarke95 for more details._

* * *

The first thing she noticed was the smell.

The smell and the decaying sign that hung from the roof of the train station. Both were rotten, combined with weeded grass and cracking wood, and she pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head to pinch the bridge of her nose.

It was May, and the humidity was strong, making the scent strong, too.

She turned up the volume on her iPod and glanced at the sign above her.

"_Welcome to Arkadia. Home of America's Great Waterfalls."_

Clarke scoffed. There's nothing great about waterfalls.

Nothing great about this town.

Her mother told her she was acting childish before she left, and judgemental; but Clarke probably knew more about this town than the people who resided in it. Knew of the population of 672 people, that the nearest hospital is in the town over, and the closest Starbucks is in the three towns after that.

And that there's only two waterfalls, both of which are _not _great, yet still baited for tourists.

Though the tourists never come and the residents never leave.

Arkadia was the home of _nothing_.

She sighed. Her head hurt from the train ride and her back ached from the long hours spent against the hard cushions. She glanced at her iPod. 5:52 pm. Her father was supposed to pick her up half an hour ago.

That's the reason she's here. Her father. He walked out of her life five years earlier when Clarke was fourteen, and they haven't spoken since then; but now he's got cancer, and he's dying and shit, and apparently he doesn't want to die alone.

So he decided to bring Clarke down with him.

And also decided to be late, taking another twenty minutes before he pulled up against the curb.

She didn't recognize him at first. He's thinner, more pale - looked sick with sullen eyes and transparent skin. He pushed the driver's seat open and stepped out of the car, removing his large sunglasses to reveal his crinkled smile.

"Clarke," he said, and he sounded awed. "It's good to see you."

She stood from the side of the curb. "You're late."

"I know. I'm sorry, I fell asleep."

She nodded. He grinned.

"You had a long ride, yeah?" he asked. He walked towards her and lifted both of her suitcases from the concrete. "You're probably hungry. As a kid you were always hungry. So I was thinking, there's this great steak place - "

"I'm a vegetarian," she told him.

"They have really good salads, too."

He brought her to a local diner called _Grilled City_, and they sat across the window that had the view of the water. It wasn't an ocean, but it was nice, and he ordered a steak, and ordered her a salad, too.

The waitress placed the salad on their table. It was choppy, with black olives and shredded Kraft cheese.

Jake winked at her. "It's the best salad in the damn town."

She nodded, and took a bite of the green leafs. It tasted like expired almond milk.

Her father smiled at her expression. "It gets better the second time," he told her. He ran a hand nervously through his thin hair; she wondered why he even still had any. "How you've been, Clarke?"

She shrugged. "Neck hurts from the ride over, but I'm fine."

"And your mom?" he asked.

"Good. Still with Marcus."

Her father knew Marcus. He was the CEO of the company he worked for when he lived in Boston, and was also the new husband to her mother. He was nice, and patient, and she knew he made her mom happy.

Jake used to make her mom happy, too. Used to make all of them happy.

"That's good," he muttered. "I like him."

Clarke looked at him. "You don't have to lie."

He shook his head. "I'm not," he said. "He's good to her, and more importantly he's good to you."

"How do you know he's good to me?"

"Well, he's never given me a reason to think otherwise."

"Even if he did," Clarke said, and she stabbed at a piece of lettuce. "You wouldn't know about it."

Her father pressed his lips together, distressed, and the waitress returned to their table.

"Any more water, Jake?" she asked him.

He glanced at her and nodded, sobering his expression. "Yeah. Thanks, Nancy." She smiled, tucking her red hair behind her ear as she poured more water into his cup. She turned to Clarke. "How about you, sweetie? You need anything else?"

"Diet Coke, please," Clarke told her.

The waitress laughed. "Oh honey, that ain't an option," she said, and Clarke blinked up at her. "If you want anything other than a watered down Pepsi you best haul your ass to the next town over. Heard they've got a 24 hour McDonalds."

They finished dinner half an hour later. Clarke didn't finish her salad, and declined the chance to take the remainders home with her; but her father finished his steak, and then ordered another one for home, and they were silent when he walked her to his car, even more silent when he drove them to his house.

He took an exit onto a dirt road, and pulled into a driveway, putting the car in park. Clarke stared at the house through the window.

It was huge. Settled on the edge of the beach with a wide porch that reminded her of Boston. It had more windows than the colours on the wall, and there was porch swing; a small book case beside it. It was nice.

Jake looked at her. "Ready to see the inside?"

He carried her suitcases to the door as she entered the house, and her eyes glazed over the shades that covered the wallpaper, the pieces of art that hung in the living room. There was so much room, so many things, and she thought of how her father spent the last five years here, eating and sleeping alone in a house this big.

She glanced at him, and he led her up the stairs, turning a corner to show her the bedroom.

"I wasn't able to paint it in time - I know you like blue, but," she looked around the room, touching her palm along the dull orange shading of the wall, "I hope this still works."

She nodded. "It'll work."

"You even have a nice window. You know, if you want to paint the beach or something."

"I don't paint anymore."

He stared at her. "You love painting."

"I did," she said, and he rubbed his hand against his jaw. "But it's just no longer a passion of mine."

"Huh. You're kidding."

She shook her head. "I'm not."

Jake pressed his lips together, looking at her. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Okay, well," he walked towards the door and placed a hand against the wood. "You're probably jet-lagged, tired. Uhm - washroom's down the hall. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. Make yourself at home."

"Okay."

He nodded. "Okay." He hesitated, the corner of his lips turned at the edges. "I'll see you in the morning."

And then he smiled, forced onto his mouth as he left the room, echoing that moment from so many years ago. The purple of his veins are a different shade than she remembered, and she collapsed onto the bed, shielding her eyes from the remaining sunlight cascaded over the beach.

Arkadia. Home of nothing.

Now home to her.

* * *

_Share what you think below, xoxo._


	13. Snippet 2

_Oh...hey...it's been a while..._

_So, I would totally understand if ya'll hated me, but I'm working on something better I promise. In fact, my promise is so real, that I even released this sneak peek for you guys. This is the first scene in a long one-shot that follows Bellamy and Clarke throughout two decades of New Years Eve._

_This story is gonna floor all of you. This is the first scene, full story to come in the next month. Thank you._

* * *

_Say You Won't Let Go_

_i met you in the dark, you lit me up_

_you made me feel as though i was enough_

_i. new years eve 1995_

The Blakes move to Westwood on a Tuesday, their belongings packed in a mini van.

It's raining when they pull into the driveway, a dusky, trembling sky that announces their arrival. Clarke beams, kneeling in front of her living room window. She's _excited_; has been excited to meet her new neighbours since Mrs. Wilson got transferred to a hospital in Seattle.

It's not that she didn't like Mrs. Wilson, or her two cats that always seemed to eat her mother's garden, but Clarke was the only kid on the street, and she was desperate for new friends.

"Daddy!" Clarke yells. She cuffs her hands against the glass. "Daddy, they're here! Come down!"

The van doors open, and two children rush out of the vehicle, shielding their hair from the rain.

Clarke smiles. _Kids._

Jake walks into the living room. "Look at that, Stardust," he says, and he places his hands on her shoulders. They're shaking too much in excitement for him to hold. "You've got some new friends to play with."

The youngest one, who Clarke will learn is only five, walks tiredly towards her new home, dark bangs pasted to her forehead. She carries a cardboard box in one hand and a stuffed animal in the other, an older boy holding onto her as they walk up the porch steps.

Based on the dark complexion and darker hair, she thinks it's her brother. They look young, her age, and it's _per__fect_.

Clarke looks at her father. "Should I go over and say hi?"

He chuckles. "Let them settle in, yeah?"

"Okay. How about after dinner?"

"Clarke."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah," he nods, "tomorrow."

She doesn't sleep that night. Her mind wraps in ideas on what to say and what games they should play. She decides on tag, since it's easy, and in the morning she grabs her whistle and a pen and walks over to the house next door.

The young boy answers. He has a valley of freckles that run along his cheeks. She wonders if he would let her draw them someday.

"Hi." Clarke reaches her hand forward. "I'm Clarke Rosalie Griffin, your next-door neighbour."

"Bellamy," he says. He doesn't shake her hand.

"That's a cool name."

"Thanks."

"Is it Greek?"

He shrugs. "I don't know."

"My mom tells me a lot of things come from Greek mythology, and so does my dad. He's a giant nerd." She bites on her bottom lip, looking at the empty house behind him. "You have a sister, right?"

Octavia Blake is smaller up close, her hair even darker in the shadows of their house. She stands awkwardly beside her brother after he calls her to the door, and she's just as quiet, just as shy.

Clarke smiles, and asks them to play with her in her backyard. They tell her they have to finish unpacking.

"Maybe they're just scared," her mother tells her later. She places the dish towel beside the kitchen sink. "They came from across the state. It's a new city for them." Clarke sighs, and her mother tilts her chin. "Hey, give them time. They'll come around."

But they don't, and it isn't until the following month that Clarke realizes why.

Her mother usually works late on New Years Eve, and so her and her father spend the remaining hours of the year watching the Dick Clark special with buttered popcorn and chocolate bars. It's a tradition with her father, since being a surgeon isn't exactly a 9-5 job, and Clarke is almost done her third bowl when she notices a glare from the window.

It's strong, and bright, and she leans forward on the couch. The glare is coming from the Blake house across the street.

She narrows her eyes. "Daddy."

"What is it, Stardust?"

"The Blake house," she says. "The lights are still on."

"That's okay. Maybe they're spending New Years Eve like us."

Clarke presses her lips together and looks back to the window. She doesn't see shadows, or the outline of a TV, or -

"There's no cars in the driveway."

Her father stares at her. "What?" he asks, and she points to the driveway. No cars. Not Mr. Blakes, or Mrs. Blakes. Her father curses - she never hears him swears but he does, and he gets up from the recliner and grabs her hand.

They walk to the house next door in their PJs. Octavia answers it after the third knock.

Jake smiles. "Hi. Octavia, is it?"

Octavia looks at Clarke. She nods. "Yeah."

"Nice to meet you, Octavia. My name is Jake, I'm Clarke's father." He looks inside the house, his expression strained. "Is your mother home at the moment, sweetie?"

Octavia shakes her head. "She's at work."

"And your dad?"

She shrugs. Jake swallows thickly.

"Okay." He sighs and kneels in front of her. "Why don't you get your brother - your brother is here, right?" Octavia nods at him. "Okay, good. Your mother just called me, and she wants you to get your brother and watch the ball drop at our place. That sound like fun?"

Octavia stares at him. She looks confused.

"We have the Dick Clark special," Clarke tells her. "And lots of soda."

Octavia presses on her bottom lip; looks up at them with those bright, brown eyes. "Do you have any food?"

Jake releases a breath. "Yeah," he tells her. "Yeah, we have lots of food. Come on."

Octavia nods, and that's how it happens. The beginning of her story with the Blake siblings. It's not as easy convincing Bellamy to come to the house, but he's better after, though still quiet and shy.

He eats the pasta that her father makes, and tells them things - that he's nine-years-old, into Greek mythology too, and that his mother asked the dad to watch them for the night while he was at work.

But their dad left three hours ago to get snacks, and he hasn't been back since.

Clarke is only seven, she doesn't know how to handle these things. But her father does, he's the _best_ at it really - because he doesn't say anything. doesn't pry or dig. He only asks Bellamy about his favourite Greek God, and for a brief moment, Bellamy smiles.

A few days later, Clarke invites them over again. This time, they say yes.

* * *

_aaaaaand that's the preview! there will be about 18 more of these in the full story - each telling a different story during a different New Years Eve, though it's still the same plot and characters and setting. Anyways, hope you liked it and enjoy reading the rest! Will be up within the next two weeks._

_PS. I missed you guys. Xo._


	14. Say You Won't Let Go Snippet

Oh_ my God. GUYS! Your feedback has been amazing for Say You Won't Let Go, and I'm so excited to share the final chapter with you. It's been so amazing seeing all of your reviews after a long hiatus, and I really appreciate the welcome back._

_This is only a few paragraphs of the first scene since I don't want to spoil too much though I also want to get you excited._

_The second part will be released this Thursday night on March 16th, though I will be trying to get it out by Wednesday so keep an eye out. Anyways, enjoy the (very short) sneak peek from the second part of Say You Won't Let Go!_

* * *

_Part Two_

_i wanna live with you, even when we're ghosts_

_xi. new year's eve 2007_

He leaves in the morning, telling her they'll talk about it.

Things had changed, he said, and he wanted time to think.

He presses a kiss to her cheek, his lips lingering, and she knows that his hesitance isn't brought on by his feelings towards her, but because he's always been a cautious man. He was a man with calculations, and strategies - one who acts when he's made all of the possible outcomes in his head.

He wants this, she feels that he wants it, but only if she does, too.

And she did. But maybe she needed time to think, too.

He lived in Boston, and she was in high school, repeating senior year and yet still unaware of what she wanted to do or who she wanted to be.

Her father tried to help her, told her to go to art school, but her mother said it was a silly dream with no stable income.

"Who cares about money," her father says on the last night of January. It was a Wednesday, and they were watching the stars on the back porch. "The world needs less money, and even fewer people who think it can make them happy."

"It can, though," she says. "Can't it?"

"You tell me. What's the most important thing to you?"

"Family." She thinks of Bellamy. "Friends."

"There's your answer. As long as you have those things, you don't need anything else."

"But I do. How the hell do I pay for a house? For a car?"

He shakes his head. "Haven't I ever told you to take a risk, Stardust?"

"More than once."

"Okay." He nods and looks at the sky. "Then stop worrying and take a risk."

She does, and applies to UCLA for their fall 2007 semester. Her mother doesn't say anything, but her father tells her he's proud.

"See what happens when you follow your heart?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah," she says, and she presses her lips together. Her heart aches with another question. "Hey, Dad?"

He turns to her. Her chest feels fuzzy.

"Say that you wanted to follow your heart for something else, like a guy or whatever. But it would mean risking your friendship. Would that be okay, too?"

He smiles; the one that eases her.

"Yeah. I think that would be okay."

Three days later, he's killed on a cold night in February.

* * *

_so short, I know! But I don't want to reveal too much haha. Anyways, the full story will be published either this Wednesday or Thursday night, so keep checking on those days! Until then, have a wonderful week 3_

_Xoxo._


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